


Remembrances of Things Past

by travels_in_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travels_in_time/pseuds/travels_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt at the kinkmeme: "John's the one missing for three years to take down Moriarty...everyone still thinks he's dead. The 5 times someone thought they saw JW in 221B after his death, and the one time he was actually back." This drifts slightly from the prompt, but that's the basic story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrances of Things Past

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to thirdbird for the beta, encouragement, and feedback! Any mistakes which remain are entirely my own fault.

1.

There isn't a formal funeral. John hadn't wanted one, that nice brother of Sherlock’s explains. What he doesn’t say, but Mrs. Hudson understands nevertheless, is that finding enough identifiable pieces to constitute an actual body might have presented difficulties.

There's a quiet cremation instead, and a scattering of people she doesn't know, including a woman who's trying--unsuccessfully--to hide her tears. Detective Inspector Lestrade hovers, obviously torn between attempting to comfort her and keeping an eye on Sherlock, who stands apart from everyone else, wrapped in his coat, scowling at the world. The weeping woman must be John's sister, Mrs. Hudson thinks, and hopes for his sake that at least she's sober. Then she reproaches herself for the ungenerous thought and goes to offer Harriet Watson a handkerchief and a sympathetic ear.

Later, she arranges a few sandwiches and a bowl of soup on a tray, along with a cup of tea, and brings it upstairs. The door is open, but she knocks on it anyway. "Tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock is hunched in his usual chair, his feet pulled up, his coat and scarf still wound around him. He doesn't look up, and it's a few moments before he answers. Finally he murmurs, "Just leave it." He sounds exhausted, but she knows better than to mention that.

She takes the tray into the kitchen, clearing off a space for it on the table, and then turns towards the sitting room. "And what about--"

She stops abruptly. John's laptop is on the table, still open; the chair is placed just so, waiting for him. For a moment she almost sees him sitting there, as she'd seen him so many times before, typing oh-so-carefully, trying not to laugh as Sherlock hurls abuse at the television.  
"Sorry, dear," she says in some confusion. "I thought I--habit, really, you know, it's just--"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." The words are coming out from between clenched teeth, as if they're physically hurting him.

She hurries away, before either of them subjects the other to any unwelcome displays of emotion. Sherlock isn't the type to take kindly to an offered handkerchief or a sympathetic ear. It might be easier for everyone if he were.

The sounds of restless footsteps follow her downstairs as Sherlock abandons his chair to begin pacing. She sighs. It's going to be another long night.

 

2.

Sally's the first one at the pub, and she stakes out their usual table in a corner at the back. Lestrade arrives next, taking the seat next to Sally, the one facing out. Lestrade, like every other policeman Sally knows, hates to sit with his back to a room.

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it wildly. He looks tired, Sally sees, and makes a note to try to get them all out and home at a decent time tonight. He can't really be looking forward to this. It's a tradition, yes, but it's the first one since--

"I invited Dimmock," Lestrade offers, and Sally rolls her eyes, brought back to the present.

"Why'd you go and do that, then?"

Lestrade shrugs. "He's having a bit of trouble with his team. Thought it'd do him some good. Moral support, and all that."

Plus, Lestrade probably wanted some distraction. She can't blame him for that. But frankly, she'd be surprised if Dimmock _weren't_ having trouble with his team. He'd been promoted over the heads of older people with more experience, and he's a complete prat.

"Sally." Lestrade is watching her, can probably read her face. "He's...yeah. All of that. But I think he'll make a good copper one day. He just needs some guidance, that's all."

Lestrade always sees the good in people. It's bloody annoying sometimes. "If he needs guidance, I can tell him where to go," she mutters, but then Dimmock himself is walking in, and Lestrade is waving to him.

He strides over to their table, pulling out the chair on the other side of Lestrade.

"You can't sit there," Sally says automatically. "That's--"

Lestrade blinks twice and looks down, swallowing.

Dimmock is looking from the chair, to Sally, to Lestrade, unsure, and Sally sees in that moment what Lestrade must have seen in him--this isn't familiar territory for him; he's not sure what he's doing, but he really doesn't want to do the wrong thing.

She shakes her head. "No. Sorry. Stupid of me."

Lestrade looks up, then; clears his throat and waves Dimmock to the chair next in line. "Leave this one, right? Just this once."

Dimmock nods and seats himself uncertainly, and then Anderson and the others are arriving and there is good-natured scuffling for the rest of the seats. No one mentions the empty seat next to Lestrade.

Soon enough, someone will explain it to Dimmock, how Sherlock Holmes never cared for a pint and a match, but John Watson did. How Lestrade got into the habit of inviting him along on the occasional Yard night out, and how they'd all compare Sherlock horror stories. How, whatever team Lestrade was rooting for, John would support the opposing team, just to be contrary. How they'd argue and drink and pound each other on the back and forget entirely, by the end of the game, who they were each supposed to be shouting for. How she hadn't seen Lestrade laugh so much in years.

Someone will tell Dimmock, and he'll leave the seat vacant for a few months without being asked. Eventually, when he no longer joins them because he's taking his own team out somewhere, the seat will be filled, and no one will even ask about it.

Tonight, though, it sits empty and Sally doesn't look at it, because when she does, she sees John sitting there. John downing a pint; John eating fish and chips; John yelling at the telly; John laughing at a joke Anderson had just told; John, with his eternal fuzzy jumpers and good nature, who almost made Sally believe that there was something worthwhile in Sherlock, because he clearly believed it so strongly.

Tonight the chair sits empty, and Sally keeps the conversation going, and tries to keep Dimmock from getting on everyone's nerves, and holds Lestrade's hand tightly under the table all evening.

 

3.

Lestrade is falling asleep over a report when Sally pokes her head into his office. "Sir?"

He starts, rubbing his eyes. "Thought you went home ages ago."

She won't say she was waiting for him to go. She never does. He knows it, though, and he tries to keep reasonable hours for her sake. But sometimes it would just mean leaving rather obviously and then sneaking back in later, and he was too tired tonight to bother.

She waves a torn piece of notebook paper at him. "This was just delivered. Anonymous note."

Lestrade sighs. "The usual?"

"Yeah."

He rubs his eyes again, shoves the papers on his desk into a haphazard pile, and stands. "All right. Tomorrow, then. Round up..." He waves a hand vaguely. "Whoever."

She nods and disappears, and Lestrade gets his coat and locks up. If he's going on a drugs bust in the morning, he'll need all the sleep he can get.

He could manage a reason of his own, of course, but it's nice to have official documentation, if you can call it that--anonymous tip-offs of drugs in the flat, complaints of bio-hazardous materials; excuses to invade Sherlock's home that can't be tracked back to him. He's never tried to trace them to their source. He has his suspicions, but he doesn't really want to know. Someone sends them semi-regularly whenever Sherlock stops showing up to crime scenes and infuriating the police, and that means Lestrade can go in and poke around and ask questions and make tea in the confusion. And if there are a few sandwiches and takeout boxes in the refrigerator when he leaves that weren't there when he arrived, well, that's just an apology for the disruption.

He doesn't know if Sherlock actually eats any of the food left behind on these occasions, but sometimes he'll drink the tea and eat the biscuits while they’re there, without appearing to notice what he's doing.

Of course, he has been known to hurl the biscuits at Anderson, instead. Sally stopped inviting Anderson on these outings after the last incident.

******************

"Anonymous complaint," he says to Sherlock, making himself comfortable in Sherlock’s chair. Sometimes that gets a reaction, makes Sherlock twitchy over the invasion of his personal space. Today Sherlock can't seem to be bothered. He's lying on the couch, eyes closed.

"As usual. You know these are fake, of course."

He shrugs, even though Sherlock isn't looking. "We have to act on information received."

"You won't find anything."

Lestrade's stomach clenches. That's not the same thing as "I'm clean," and he and Sherlock both know it. "Is there anything to find?" He's breaking the rules of this game, but suddenly he can't seem to care.

Sherlock smiles, his eyes still closed, and there's nothing amused in it at all. "No illegal drugs."

Well, that's something. Although it doesn't rule out prescriptions, over-the-counter meds, weapons...he stops that train of thought. The team he's brought along knows to look for all those things. They also all know that if Sherlock wanted to hurt himself, he'd find ways to do so that none of them could prevent or foresee. Particularly not with a drugs bust every few months. It's a farce, but it makes them feel better, just a bit.

The ceiling overhead creaks, as if someone's walking around upstairs. As far as he knows, no one's been up there yet. Lestrade looks up, uncertain.

"It's an old house," Sherlock says flatly. "It makes noise."

How many times has Sherlock heard that noise? Lestrade wonders. How many times has he thought he heard footsteps, maybe thought someone was coming down the stairs? Sherlock will pretend that he's far too logical for that sort of thing, but all alone in this flat, there have to have been times in the past year when he's imagined...

There's rattling in the kitchen, someone pouring water from the kettle, rummaging for mugs, and Lestrade turns his head involuntarily. It's Sally, he _knows_ it's Sally, but still, prompted by his imagination, for just a moment he'd seen John at the counter. Slightly mocking smile shared with Sherlock over the incursion into their home. Slightly guilty glint in his eyes when he glances at Lestrade, knowing exactly what they've done to piss off the DI this time. British manners overlying all of that as he politely offers tea to all the invaders.

It's not the first time he's imagined John in the flat, or thought he'd caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye. It's one of the most vivid, though, and suddenly he has no desire at all for the mug that Sally's bringing. He waves her towards Sherlock instead.

These visits aren't accomplishing anything at all, he thinks. Not for the first time.

He knows there'll be more anyway.

 

4.

Sherlock hasn't emerged from his flat in two weeks.

Mycroft studies the CCTV coverage of Baker Street, allowing himself one small sigh at his brother's reclusive habits. It's too soon for another anonymous note to the accommodating Detective Inspector, and Mycroft himself has been barred from Baker Street for over a year, ever since he made the mistake of telling Sherlock that John would have been disappointed in him for taking up the cocaine habit again. That had cost him a new suit and a replacement teapot for Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock had not, in fact, stayed on the drug. Mycroft considers it a worthwhile trade-off.

He has pondered recruiting members of Sherlock's homeless network to pass information to him, but they seem to hold a strange loyalty towards Sherlock. Even if only one mentioned to Sherlock that they’d been propositioned, any information from that source would be abruptly cut off.

He considers the man lounging against the wall a few doors down from 221B. There is always at least one informant nearby, even when Sherlock isn't on a case. This one is new, obviously sent by the woman who's usually there on Tuesdays, to take her place temporarily.

Mycroft takes careful note of the details of the man's clothing and posture, entering the information into his mental database: average height, too thin, dark curly unruly hair and beard, second-hand clothing. Not a threat, he decides, and turns back to the reports on his desk.

He glances at one of them and puts it aside for later. Another one of Moriarty's agents in Romania has been found dead. He knows what the report will say--the same thing that every other similar report has said. Nothing at all. No useful information anywhere. Mysterious deaths and disappearances all across Europe, and no one knows anything about them. All that they have in common is membership in Moriarty's criminal network.

He's investigated, of course. Sent his best agents into the field for answers. After the fifth one had gone missing, he'd taken the hint and backed off. None of them had been permanently harmed, that was the odd thing. They'd typically be found days later, in some other country, drugged and with no memory of their mission whatsoever. Oddest of all had been the one who'd turned up with a broken arm and a slight concussion. The arm had been splinted and an apologetic note had been pinned to the man's shirt.

The inference was clear. Someone was methodically taking down Moriarty's network, and that someone, while not actively hostile, did not appreciate Mycroft's interference. And if Mycroft continued to investigate, he would draw too much attention, putting the unknown agent in danger. That would be a disaster for any number of reasons.

Non-interference was not in Mycroft's nature, but slowly he came to the conclusion that whoever was responsible, he was apparently quite capable at taking care of himself, and that his own energies could be better used in worrying about Sherlock. He has had far more practice at that, in any case.

He glances back up at the surveillance screen as movement alerts him. Sherlock has at last deigned to step outside. He glances up and down the street, then heads in the direction of the man Mycroft had noted earlier.

The man calls out to him as he passes. Sherlock halts, rummages in a pocket of his coat, tosses the man a lighter. The man lights a cigarette and passes the lighter back to Sherlock. Only someone watching very closely, possibly through a surveillance camera with an unexpectedly good zoom lens, would note the folded piece of notepaper that also changes hands.

The man nods at Sherlock in thanks and takes a deep drag on the cigarette. Sherlock nods back curtly and strides away, no doubt heading out on the trail of whatever clue he's just been given.

Sherlock hadn't had any trouble recognizing the stranger as a replacement for one of his regulars. He'd probably noted the same indicators that Mycroft had. And there would have been no reason for him to notice anything beyond that. Very little, in fact, to be noticed. The weather is still disguising most of London underneath shapeless coats, caps, gloves. There might be dye in the man’s hair or colored contacts in his eyes, but that’s beyond the capabilities of even Mycroft’s cameras to verify, and not something Sherlock would be watching out for.

Although if Sherlock were still watching as his informant walks away, he would certainly spot the obvious presence of lifts in the man’s shoes, as Mycroft does. There could be medical reasons for them, of course. There’s no reason to suspect that possibly they’re being worn to disguise a certain height, for example, or a certain gait. The fact that the man was careful not to move until Sherlock was out of sight doesn’t mean anything.

There is nothing about this nameless man to arouse any suspicion, any speculation, at all. He is no one of importance. There is no need to investigate him further to or to pay him any attention whatsoever.

He is definitely not John Watson. John Watson has been dead for two and a half years. The British government is absolutely certain about this.

And what the British government doesn't know won't get anyone killed.

 

5.

It's 3:00 AM. A cup of tea, long gone cold, sits beside him. He's in his chair, knees pulled up, staring into space. It's ridiculous, it's a boring case with no redeeming merits whatsoever, but ever since the photo of Ronald Adair was splashed across the front pages of the papers three days before, he's been unable to stop tracking it. There's something there, he knows it. There's something he's missing, something he hasn't seen. He can't explain the sense of urgency behind it, but he knows, somehow he knows, and as always food and sleep are secondary to the need to think.

The problem with attempting to concentrate at this time of night is that, as he'd once pointed out to Lestrade, old houses creak. He's catalogued the sounds this one makes, correlated the types of noises to the weather, to the time of year, to the humidity. He knows there's no one moving about in the kitchen. He knows there's no one rolling over in the bed upstairs. There's no one downstairs, even, as Mrs. Hudson has gone to visit her niece. The wind makes the street door shudder in its frame; it only sounds like someone has opened it.

At least he's stopped seeing things. At first every short sandy-haired man on the street had caught his attention. Every man with a military bearing and a predilection for jumpers had got an inadvertent second look. There'd been shadows in the flat that seemed to move when he looked away. He'd been certain that, if he had come into the room a few moments sooner, if he'd turned just a fraction more quickly--

He'd tried staying away from people, not taking any cases, not interacting with anyone at all. The visions haunting the flat had multiplied, and Lestrade had started turning up on his doorstep with disturbing regularity.

Then he'd tried the drugs. Cocaine had sharpened everything, had increased the sightings a hundredfold but let him realize with clarity that he was only lying to himself. That what he was looking for was gone forever. It wasn't hard to let go of that level of insight. Mycroft cutting off his allowance and Lestrade threatening to suspend his "consultant" status only facilitated the decision he'd already made.

He'd never understood before how people could choose to ignore the information their senses gave them, but now he did it purposefully. He trained himself not to see, finally. It had taken far too long, but a man walking to work no longer merited a glowering inspection simply because the shape of his nose was familiar. A street informant didn't deserve an interrogation strictly because his ears sparked something in Sherlock's mind. These bits and pieces of memory were nothing, they were ghosts in his head just like the noises in the flat, and they meant nothing. They were to be deleted when possible and ignored when not.

At times they are harder to ignore than others. Tonight, for instance. The windows are rattling, the door banging, the stairs creaking. A storm is brewing, he thinks. He would actually believe that someone is ascending the stairs if he didn't know better.

The sitting room door swings inward. A gust of wind, no doubt; perhaps the street door has indeed somehow blown open. One of his ghosts stands on the landing.

He'd _stopped_ , he rages inwardly. He'd stopped seeing memories of the past at every turn, he'd stopped the drugs, he'd stopped _looking_. Why now?

The ghost is staring at him. "Sherlock. I didn't...well, I should have known you'd be awake."

This...this is new. They were never real hallucinations, only fragments of memory and wishful thinking. They didn't _speak_.

The ghost is moving now, heading towards him quickly. "Hey, easy--" It grabs him by the shoulders, and he realizes that he's standing up, now, off-balance and struggling to understand why the room is spinning. "Come on, sit down." It guides him gently down to his seat again, and he blinks, wondering how a figment of his imagination manages to feel so solid.

The ghost is kneeling beside the chair, still steadying his shoulder. "I'm sorry," it's saying. "I didn't think--I didn't mean to--Sherlock, I'm sorry, are you all right? Can you breathe?"

Of course he can breathe. It's the ghost who has no breath, no life, no reality. Impossible. There is an impossibility in his sitting room, watching him with concern.

He can breathe, he reminds himself. He takes two deep breaths, just to prove it. Three. Eliminate the impossible. Four. Ghosts do not exist. Five. Whatever remains. Six. And then, finally, he can focus on the improbable. The ghost is thinner than Sherlock recalls. More lines around his eyes. Hair slightly darker; a trace of dye, perhaps? Different from his memories. Not what he would imagine. This is the truth, then; not a ghost.

"Sherlock, say something." The grip on his shoulder is tighter, and he meets the blue eyes for the first time.

"John."

 

+1

Lestrade arrives at 221B panting and with a stitch in his side. Leaning against the wall for a moment, catching his breath before attempting the stairs inside, he doesn't particularly notice the cab pulling up in the street until Sally tumbles out of it, clearly bent on the same errand as he is.

She's not surprised to see him, either. She waves her phone at him. "You got this message?"

He nods. "So much for a day off."

"He does it on purpose, I swear," Sally mutters.

Lestrade knocks, not bothering to point out that this situation has been handled already by on-duty personnel, and that she hasn't actually been called in officially. Mainly because all the reasons that she's here apply to him as well.

Mrs. Hudson opens the door for them with no surprise, smiling in welcome. "Go on, then. I'm doing a cake, I'll have it upstairs in a bit. Isn't it wonderful?"

 _The cake, or your lodger nearly being killed?_ Lestrade wonders. He opts for, "Er, yes, absolutely," instead.

As they're heading up, there's another knock on the door, and Lestrade hears Anderson's voice. He catches up with them on the stairs. "I'm writing a letter of complaint,” he grouses. “You just can't get efficient assassins these days."

The sitting room door is open, and Sherlock has apparently heard that; he looks up from his chair and smirks as they step inside. "Your touching concern for my safety is noted, Anderson."

Lestrade, watching Anderson, sees the moment when the retort he's preparing dies on his lips. His eyes widen, his face pales, and abruptly he turns to Lestrade. "I'll...go and put the kettle on. Sir."

"Sure," Lestrade says, and Anderson flees to the kitchen without a backward look. He turns to Sally, to see if she's noticed the odd reaction, but she's got a death grip on his sleeve and has the same wide-eyed vacant stare as Anderson.

"Sally?"

She swallows, her eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere except at him or Sherlock. "Yes? Er. I'll help him." And just like that, she's gone too.

"I assume this is about the murder attempt, and not another drugs bust," Sherlock says. "Given that you haven't brought a full team, and that you haven't produced a warrant."

Lestrade doesn't reply, because now that Anderson and Sally aren't standing in the way, he can see the sofa. And--no. There’s nothing, no one there. It's ridiculous, it's--he's worried about Sherlock, that's all, his mind is playing tricks on him again and it's been three _years_ , there's no reason--

"Yeah. No. We all got texts." He pulls his eyes away from the sofa and blinks rapidly. "Are you all right?" Then he could kick himself. Sometimes he really is as thick as Sherlock thinks he is.

That smirk is back. "Obviously." He gestures at one of the windows, which, Lestrade now notices, is shattered. "Only slight property damage, and the man responsible is in custody. A minor incident, really."

Lestrade sinks into John's--the other chair, and determinedly keeps his eyes focused on Sherlock. "Well, someone thought it was important enough to call us over here."

"Ah. No, I believe that was only a pretext." A crashing sound comes from the kitchen before Lestrade can ask what, exactly, it was a pretext for, and Sherlock looks annoyed.

"Sorry!" Sally calls. Her voice still sounds shaken. "Dropped the tea canister."

"If you really must invade our living quarters, could you at least have the decency to keep the noise down?" Sherlock calls back. "Can't you see that John is sleeping?"

"Attempting to sleep." The irritated correction comes from the direction of the sofa, and Lestrade looks over before he can stop himself. John's lying there with his arm over his eyes, but as Lestrade watches, he speaks again. "I realize that it's an imposition on your busy schedule of tea-making and flat-searching, but--"

From the further crashing noises in the kitchen, Lestrade can only conclude that a couple of mugs have just met an untimely demise. Then Sally and Anderson are both in the doorway, staring at the sofa as well. That's a good sign, right? He might be crazy, but if so, at least his entire team is too. He finds a strange sort of comfort in that idea.

"Oh, God," Anderson breathes.

Sally glances at him. "You see it too."

"Well, now you've done it," Sherlock says with some satisfaction.

John drops his arm and sits up, yawning. "Fine, I'm awake now. Put a cup on for me, will you?" He grins at all of them, an expression that falters as complete silence reigns. He glances from one blank face to the next. "You did know...you didn't." He glares at Sherlock. "Why would you text them to come over and not _tell_ them, you bloody idiot?"

"I didn't," Sherlock snaps back. "You said it wasn't the sort of news one breaks in a text message."

"I meant for family, I was trying to stop you texting Harry," John--it is John, it has to be, although Lestrade is still trying to work out the hows and whys--clarifies. "Then who--oh. Mycroft."

"Mycroft," Sherlock confirms. "And speaking of family, I hope you did manage to notify your sister, because if not, my damnable interfering brother certainly has by this point."

John's guilty expression is answer enough. "I suppose she's on her way over already." He sighs and looks up at Lestrade. "I'm sorry. I know this must be rather a shock."

A shock. Lestrade isn't sure whether he wants to laugh or cry or possibly arrest someone. He's still trying to figure it out when Sally flies past him and hugs John so hard she nearly knocks him over. And then she pulls back and smacks him on the shoulder, hard. The good one, Lestrade notices, and he can't believe that after three years, she remembers.

"You were _dead_ , you bastard. You were dead and we went to your funeral and you've been gone for _three years_ and _what the hell is going on?_ "

She's sniffling now, and John has an arm around her, his attention off Lestrade for the moment. That's a good thing, Lestrade thinks. If he could manage to speak at all, he might be expressing the same opinions as Sally. Except he'd have probably punched John in the face instead of the shoulder, and John probably wouldn't have hugged him, and all things considered, it's probably a good thing that Sally’s running interference on this one.

"Yes, I'm sure we'd all quite like to hear the story," a calm voice says from the doorway.

Lestrade looks up. A man in a very nice suit is leaning negligently on an umbrella, a young woman tapping away on a Blackberry behind him. He looks vaguely familiar, Lestrade thinks.

"Oh, fine, come in," Sherlock sighs. "I don't suppose we’ll be rid of you until you know everything. Although how you don't already...you're slipping, Mycroft."

"I imagine that I know more than you do," the man says placidly, ignoring the frown that statement brings to Sherlock's face. "But I admit there are gaps in my information that I'd appreciate having filled in. I've taken the liberty of ordering Chinese; it should be here soon. And I believe Mrs. Hudson has a cake?"

"Coming up now, dear," they hear from the stairs, and a moment later the landlady is heading to the kitchen and drafting Anderson into service to find clean plates and forks.

The next few hours are a blur in Lestrade's mind. John's sister shows up when John's just started his explanation, and for a while he thinks he's going to have a domestic on his hands. Eventually the tears and shouting turn into tears and hugs just in time for John's sister's ex-wife to come in, which prompts yet more tears and shouting, but in the end they're all pacified with food and the promise of answers if they'll just calm down.

In the meantime, someone named Mike has turned up with pizza and beer and a cheerful smile. Lestrade welcomes him as an oasis of normality in between the familial tension of John and Harry, and Sherlock and his brother, who are trading barbs about Mycroft's diet when they can get a word in edgewise. Mycroft's assistant--Lestrade still hasn't caught her name--is ignoring everyone. Even when she eats or has a glass of the surprisingly good wine that someone has produced, her eyes stay focused on her phone.

A couple more of the officers from the Yard and some of John's army buddies have drifted in and out. The doctor John was sort-of seeing before he disappeared has dropped by, introduced her new husband, who looked more than a bit bewildered by the whole thing, and told John that the clinic could probably use him again for part-time work if he needed it. Mrs. Hudson is in her element, happily keeping the tea going and making sure no one has an empty plate for long. John's story, all about chases and bad guys and thrilling escapes (conveniently lacking detailed explanations as to what, exactly, happened to the bad guys, Lestrade notices), is getting told in bits and pieces around all the other conversations happening.

It's a wake, Lestrade realizes gradually. There's food and drink and too many people crammed into too small a space and lots of reminiscing. Half the people here are telling half the others stories about John, laughing and eating and celebrating life, and how often do you get to do this when the guest of honor is right in the middle of it all, arguing with the more improbable details of the stories around a mouthful of Chinese food?

He feels a hand in his at one point and looks around to see Sally smiling up at him. "I suppose there's no point in trying to find out about that shooting now."

"Suppose not," he agrees. "Not our case anyway, and it is our day off, after all. Enjoy it, it won't happen very often." He looks over to see a smile on Sherlock's face as he watches John that they haven't seen for three years, and Sally squeezes his hand.

"Probably not, now that things are back to normal," she agrees.

**************

Much later, someone is trying to move Lestrade off the sofa where he's just got comfortable, slumped in a corner. He's protesting to no avail, when someone else says, "Just leave him. I'll throw a blanket over him and he can sleep there."

"I can put him in a cab if you'll just help me get him downstairs." It's Sally's voice, slightly irritated because she doesn't want to sound worried, and he opens his eyes. The room is dark and quiet. Everyone must have gone home, finally.

"'m fine, Sally," he says. "Just tired."

"It is way past midnight," the other voice agrees. Someone leans down into his line of vision. John. He blinks, wanting to make sure, and John says to Sally, "See, he's just tired. Nothing at all to do with all that beer he managed to get through."

"It was the pizza," he says, with all the dignity he can muster. "Too many carbs or something. It was sleep-inducing pizza." He waves at Sally. "Go on, I'll see you later."

John disappears, probably to walk Sally downstairs and make sure she finds a cab, and Lestrade closes his eyes. When he wakes up again, John is shoving a pillow under his head and there is--true to John's word--a blanket covering him. "There's a glass of water on the coffee table," John tells him. "Will you be all right for the night?"

"Fine."

John turns away, and sudden primal fear hits Lestrade. "John."

He turns back. "Yeah?"

He really is there. He's alive. He'll still be there in the morning. It's a bloody miracle, and Lestrade can never, ever say how grateful he is for any of that.

"You wanker," he says instead. "You _owe_ me. Three years of rounds at the pub, you owe me for."

"Only half," John objects. "Half are yours anyway."

"All right," he agrees. His eyes fall shut of their own accord. "A year and a half. And three years of looking after Sherlock."

There's a moment of silence, and then John's hand is on his shoulder. "I can't pay you back for that. But tell you what, we'll go out this weekend and I'll try to make a start, all right?"

"Right," he murmurs, and he's asleep before John lets go.


End file.
